


Shrieking Shrike

by RunningHaunted



Series: Kindred [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier carries some heavy baggage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Self-Fulfilling Prophecy, They are so in love, of the bad kind, yennefer being badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22163602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunningHaunted/pseuds/RunningHaunted
Summary: The past comes to haunt and leaves charred bodies dancing in the burned down ruins of our home.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Kindred [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584472
Comments: 178
Kudos: 2469





	Shrieking Shrike

**Author's Note:**

> Remember me saying this is getting out of hand? Well, it got worse...
> 
> The idea for the Kindred verse shoved me down rabbit hole faster than i could say yikes. And I’ve begun taking huge liberties with backgrounds and such... well, the only positive thing about there not being a season two yet: fanfic authors can do whatever the hell they want right now. 
> 
> On a happier note: All the positive feedback on the previous installments completely floored me, guys! Like, the sole reason why I’m even still writing this is because you’ve all take the time to read and leave a comment. Which is absolutely insane! I love ya all!!  
> And all those amazing prompts!!! I’m definitely be using all of them at some point, maybe mix them up a bit and see how much more pain I can put the boys through... mwahahaha!
> 
> As always, my gratitude goes out to @AvengetheDirection ! Every writer deserves such an awesome cookie as their personal assistant to keep them motivated! Without this cookie there definitely wouldn’t have been a follow up to the first part. :3

It’s been four utterly boring days and Jaskier is about ready start mixing the paint for Roach. 

The horse had looked positively horrified when the bard had dragged himself into the stables to plop down on a pile of hay and proceed to tell her what would be in store if Geralt wouldn’t be back within the promised time. 

After that revelation, the loud neigh had sounded like both curse and cry for help. And Jaskier had to avoid getting stomped by fleeing the box shortly after, although a carrot put the brown mare in much more amiable spirits and she’d even permitted Jaskier to rub a hand over her soft snout while munching. 

Jaskier, even though he feels a little guilty for it, is glad that Geralt had offered to leave Roach with him. It’s been easier like this. It had given Jaskier a good enough reason to push himself to move more, regain some strength caused by the blood loss.

He’d even begun singing again yesterday evening, when some of the farmers had been disgruntled by the wolf pack in the woods stealing more sheep, to cheer them up a little. 

Testing some of his newly composed songs had been refreshing and fulfilling, the chatter they’d engaged him in afterwards even more so. 

The collective mood in the tavern had lifted significantly, misery giving way to laughter and positivity. For that alone Kroer, the innkeeper, had promised him and Geralt a weeks worth of food for the way. “If the people are jovial, they drink and eat more.” He’d said. “And that brings more coin.”

The innkeeper, now that Jaskier had taken the time to get to know him a little, is a kind man with two daughters and a son. His wife had died in childbirth, leaving him to raise the three on his own with help from his sister. 

The inn and tavern Kroer had apparently bought off the former innkeeper (an old drunkard) only five years previous, spending all the money he’d collected over the span of thirty years to pay him off at once. “A gamble” he’d admitted, scratching his greying beard sheepishly. “But well worth it. My kids and I haven’t gone hungry since. And it gets you a certain status with the other townsfolk.”

And of course Jaskier hadn’t been able to pass up the chance to satisfy his curiosity. “You don’t seem unnerved by Geralt.”

Kroer had blinked owlishly. “The Witcher?”

“Yeah.”

The innkeeper had smiled then, wide and sincere, pushing some more ale in his direction. “Boy, I know what they say about his kind. Even encountered one or two over the years. But this one? Anybody with eyes can see that those rumors are utter bullshit.” And leaves it at that. 

Which is also why he’s in a pretty good mood when he finds himself leaning on the door to Roach’s box on day four, grinning like a madman at the horse who looks about as done with his shit as Geralt on a daily basis. 

“So, missy, what do you think? Pink or green?”

Jaskier, if asked, would swear up and down that the mare actually narrows her eyes into a glare, pulling her ears back flat against her slender neck to voice her displeasure. 

The bard actually cackles. Geralt’s face would be absolutely priceless if he painted his most treasured companion a shrieking shade of pink. But a short lived joy, because Geralt would definitely throttle him. Worth it to see the reaction though. 

Roach’s ears fly back up, and her entire body pulls taut and alert from one moment to the next. 

Jaskier whirls around, his heart in his throat and instantly cussing up a storm when the movement pulls at the wound. 

Who he sees standing to the stable’s entrance, however, makes the wound appear like naught but a scratch in comparison. 

“Fuck no. What are you doing here!?”

“Nice to see you, too, bardling.” Yennefer says dryly. “Now, where’s your guard wolf?”

——

“Here.” 

Geralt let’s the beast’s head drop right in the middle of the mayor’s desk, taking a vindictive kind of delight in the way the fat man goes green at the sight and smell. 

The black blood soaks through some important looking documents, coloring them in a gruesome shade of darkest grey saturated with faint lines of red. 

The mayor’s advisor, a tall, thin man with a black goatee, actually gags at the sight. 

It had taken him all of two days to reach this godforsaken town with the old stallion one of the farmers had given him, and the Witcher already feels the acute loss of both his traveling companions with a pang deep in his gut. 

“The coin.” He says gruffly, returning their attention to him. 

The mayor stares a few seconds longer at the severed head and clears his throat, taking a handkerchief out of the drawer to dab at the sweat on his brows. 

„Right. But how can we be sure that it was only this one monster, Witcher? What if you’ve gotten this head from-„

The ice cold glare Geralt levels the small man with has him break off midsentence. The chair squeaks and groans beneath him as he shifts uncomfortably. 

Geralt is not in the mood for either diplomatics or ploys that the mayor might try to save some money. He‘s still covered from head to toe in the beast‘s innards, and even though Geralt has a strong tolerance for such things, he doubts that Jaskier will appreciate him smelling worse than shit. 

„You will have to take my word for it.“ he says bluntly, flicking a piece of skin off his shoulder guards. 

There’s a moment of silence in which the mayor cups a hand around his mouth, probably in an attempt not to vomit, and Geralt just stands there, dripping guts and gods know what else. 

It’s the advisor he breaks first under the stare from inhuman eyes, fetching a pouch of coins from the table to toss at the Witcher with a shudder. 

Geralt catches it with ease, looks at it, takes a moment to assess the weight and feel, and finds it the amount he’d been promised. 

He turns to leave, contemplating the time it would take to bathe quickly at the inn, when the mayor calls out behind him “Leave this town, Witcher!”

Geralt stops and tilts his head. “Trust me, I’m planning on it.”

Geralt fastens the straps on his horse, securing the pouch that contains the food he’d bought earlier for the trip back. This way he wouldn’t have to hunt on the way, saving precious time. 

The horse neighs softly as he pats its throat, leading it away from the stables and towards the front gate. Geralt deliberately ignores the glances and whispers as he passes some civilians. Long since used to the attention his kind receive wherever they go. 

Nobody’s throwing stones yet, so he counts it a win. 

Tragam isn’t a big town by any means, but it does have some meager city walls (that only serve as morale, but still) and that means the people bustling about the streets are tend to crowd together sometimes. Something Geralt hates with a passion. The mingled smell and sound of so many living, breathing things throws him off balance, has all his senses work overtime to process stimuli.

This is where he usually has Roach to ground him. Her familiar presence acting as a sort of shield between him and the world. He can rely on her to alert him subtly to anything unusual he might miss in the bustle, when he has to focus extra hard not to tear into every and anyone coming too close to him or her. 

Jaskier, loathe he is to admit, had successfully started chipping away at the walls the Witcher had constructed around him, too. His presence, annoying at first, had become familiar, soothing even, after a while. 

And Geralt truly doubts that Jaskier does it on purpose, but his body language also helps him a lot when around other people. The way the bard bents towards or away from certain people, cheer or nervousness, alerts him which humans he should keep an eye on. 

Like Roach, Jaskier had become an anchor for the Witcher. A compass for behavior when in the company of humans, and the mild concern he’d come to associate with the cheerful bard has morphed into something more possessive and protective over time. 

To the point where the thought of losing him like the dragon had implied losing Yennefer had made his stomach roil and something ugly rear its head at the back of his mind. Something foreign, usually silenced by common sense and the thrill of killing monsters. It had scared him. Scared him worse than when princess Pavetta had been found pregnant and him responsible for her daughter. 

And hadn’t that been fucking hilarious. Sterile but still somehow in possession of a child legally his. Fuck the law of surprise. Fuck Destiny. 

In both his anger and his desperation he had managed to cut Jaskier loose. And however temporarily that had lasted, the ache he’d felt sitting somewhere beneath his charred rib cage along with the nervousness about the bard’s safety had only abided once he was back within his sight. 

What a great Witcher he is... his fellow wicthers from Kaer Morhen would choke on their spit would they see him now. 

Then again, Geralt couldn’t care less for what they think. 

All he cares for is getting back to the small inn and make sure the blithering idiot hadn’t managed to off himself by falling out of the bed in the meantime. Or into another knife. 

Geralt’s teeth grind together at the memory. 

His hands, slick with the bard’s blood, trying to desperately staunch the steady flow with growing panic. 

When Jaskier had foolishly thrown himself in front of him the anger towards the men from Nilfgaard had turned into abject terror, his hands reaching out to pull the bard back the moment the movement registered. Too late, because Jaskier had went limp, sinking down in his arms with steel protruding from his belly and Geralt had seen red. 

He still can’t find it in him to feel guilty for the slaughter that had followed. The feeling of burying the second dagger the man had been holding up to the hilt in his jugular had been nothing short of satisfaction. And the viciousness with which he’d then proceeded to tear the dying body apart... it’s one of the things you learn to control when becoming a Witcher. 

The way the inhuman parts of you clash and snarl and snap at each other, all fighting for dominance in this too cramped vessel of a body that used to be human, shoved into a mind space together with a very human soul...

You either surrender or adapt. Consume or be consumed. There‘s a reason why so few survive the trials. 

He’d lost control for a very brief moment and in the wake of his rage created a bloodbath.

The coppery scent of Jaskier‘s blood had drawn him back to reality, leaving him in a disoriented and dizzy haze as he’d tried to keep the bard awake, ignoring Roach‘s worried stomping and nervous neighs. 

Geralt had thought he’d lose Jaskier when he eventually passed out from blood loss. Had almost lost his mind when the bard’s heartbeat had turned into a strained flutter. Had only been able to calm down when the healer assured him that the only critical thing was the severe blood loss. That the dagger hadn’t actually hit anything vital or even dug that deep. 

Geralt had spend the night listening to Jaskier’s heartbeat, taking comfort in his scent, composed of a unique blend of sunshine, birch wood, and something inherently Jaskier’s own. 

He hadn’t been able to move from the bard’s side until Jaskier had regained full consciousness the next day. 

Another reason why Witchers don’t form bonds or attachments. They’re aware of the risks. They know of the sheer agony of having such a bond cut. Of not being able to protect what the monster-animal-inhuman part considers theirs and the human part considers precious, important. 

The first time he’d felt it with Roach had been terrifying. But keeping a horse (a very smart one) safe is relatively easy. Humans don’t care for animal companions if they can potentially make use of them even after their former master‘s Death. 

Humans however... his fear when he’d felt the bond with Roach form had been nothing compared to the absolute terror he’d experienced the first time he’d actually found himself worrying for the obnoxious bard. 

And leaving both Roach and Jaskier alone so soon after the attack...

He already feels the gnawing somewhere in his chest, the restlessness that demand he go back. Go back right now. Has felt it since leaving the inn. 

Geralt mounts his horse when the gates appear in his line of sight, reaching back with one arm to ascertain that both swords are in place, when a group of men passes him, carrying with them a familiar and alarming scent. 

“Man I swear, she was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!“

„You literally say that about every girl.“ One of them says with and eye roll. „And that woman was a witch. Of course she‘s be-„

„What was her name?“ Geralt asks, unease roiling in his gut. The monster-beast-inhuman thing throws its head back and forth, urging him to go back and keep safe. 

The group comes to a startled halt, shying away from the intensity of his stare, and Geralt has to keep a steely hold of his instincts as everything in him tells him to bare his teeth at the nervousness wafting off them in waves. 

The men start whispering amongst themselves, unaware that the Witcher can hear them with ease. But none of them mention a name to ascertain his suspicions. 

His patience is dwindling terribly fast. 

In the end, he thankfully doesn’t have to wait very long, as the same guy who’d told his friend off steps forward with an indignant huff, less nervous and fearful than the others. He shrugs the others off as they try to hold him back, hissing a few reprimands their way before turning back to Geralt. 

„You’re the witcher. Geralt of Rivia?“ 

Geralt inclines his head, trying not to let his impatience show. „Yes. The name of the sorceress?“ 

The man nods and seems to work up some courage. „Thank you for slaying that... thing. It‘s been terrorizing us for way too long and- WHAT!? It’s true!“ he snaps at his comrades when they try to hush him again. 

„Nobody wanted to help us.“ he continues. 

Geralt wants to fucking grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he tells him the bloody name. He doesn’t need gratitude. He hadn’t done it for them. 

Still, he gives a gruff „It was nothing.“ before once again asking for the damn name. 

„Yennefer of Vengerberg.“

The beast-monster-thing howls, and the Witcher is sure his pupils contract to slits the way the men take a step back. 

„Where was she headed?“ he presses out. 

The man blinks, thinks with furrowed eyebrows, then says „Northwest.“

Geralt drives his heels into the stallion‘s ribs and sends them both careening forward, out the gates, back towards the inn with ever growing dread. 

——

„Not that I‘m not happy to see you, but...“

Yennefer gives him an incredulous look.

„Shouldn’t you be with Ciri?“ 

The sorceress takes a long drag from her ale, frowns, then sets the empty cup back down, gesturing at the innkeeper for another.

„She‘s in Aretuza, studying.“ 

At Jaskier‘s silence, the mage huffs. „She’s safe, bardling. Tissaia watches over her. I made a promise to your Witcher. I don’t intend to break it.“

Jaskier laughs humorlessly. „Of course you don’t.“

Yennefer’s eyes narrow, shifting over his frame. Jaskier has always thought that there’s something unnerving about her eyes, the way her purple orbs seem to swirl with chaos and barely restrained power. 

There’s something bitter about this knowledge. That she’s Geralt’s equal in every sense of the word. 

“Cirilla says she saw you get skewered. She wanted me to check on both of you.” 

“Well, now you did.”

“Yet, I can only see one of you.”

Jaskier grits his teeth, contemplates the chances of getting away with chucking his ale at her, but dismisses the idea in favor of lifting the cup to his mouth. Hoping for this to be over as soon as possible.

“How’s your pretty prophecy coming along?”

Jaskier chokes, spilling ale all over his shirt and pants. He’s also pretty sure there’s some coming out of his nose, judging by the tingling sensation. 

Yennefer grins, all teeth. “So it is true.”

The bard glares at her, trying to aggravate his wound as little as possible while simultaneously trying to clear his airways of the offending drink. 

“You know?” He wheezes eventually. 

The sorceress’s lips pull down into a frown. “I do. The actual question is why you still sought him out.”

Suddenly, the splinters on the floor are incredibly fascinating. He starts counting them, watches the silhouettes of the other guests dance across the walls. 

He can feel her gaze on him. The one that says she knows the answer but wants to hear it from the source. The one he hates with a passion. 

So he asks “How is Ciri doing?” As a way of diverting her attention. (Not only. He does care about the fair haired princess.)

And Yennefer, ever the stubborn woman, retaliates with a blunt “You can’t run from this.”

And Jaskier snaps “I can damn well try!” Because, fuck it, he’s good at running from his responsibilities. He’s good at running, period. 

Something sad and mournful crosses the mage’s face, out of place amongst the regal plane of smooth skin. Once upon a time, he’d have composed songs about her beauty. 

“Bard, it mustn’t end like this.”

“It did with Renfri.”

“Your loss would impact him much more than hers.”

Jaskier hums, inspecting the wet patches of cloth with disdain. They will need to be washed as soon as possible if he wants to keep the color from fading. “He’ll get over it eventually.” 

Yennefer regards him with such an incredulous stare that Jaskier almost feels bad for the nonchalance. But not quite. 

He appreciates her concern for the Witcher, though. Geralt cares way too little for it himself, his recent vigilance mainly stemming from the fact that he’d taken responsibility for a child.

Despite all their differences (and similarities) Jaskier has no doubt that Yennefer would try to protect Cirilla with her life, her affection for the princess only fueled by the girl‘s hard earned trust and the witch‘s wish for a child of her own. 

It’s likely the only reason why Geralt had allowed the sorceress to take his ward to Aretuza for the basics of magical studies in the first place. 

„I think you underestimate your importance to him.“

Jaskier snorts, a hand wandering to the seam of his sleeve, tugging at a loose thread there. 

Yennefer keeps watching him. He might not have the heightened senses that Geralt does, but even Jaskier can smell the sweet scent of gooseberries and lilacs coming off her. A byproduct of her magic, he thinks. An appearance deceptively human, yet more powerful than any man could dare hope for. 

„I think you’re overestimating it a bit.” 

And she honest to god has the audacity to laugh, black locks parting and flowing around her face. 

“Oh, this is rich!” She exclaims, downing the next cup of ale the moment it’s set on the table, smiling sweetly up at Kroer as she demands the next. 

The innkeeper seems indecisive, obviously aware that his newest guest isn’t your usual, traveling mage. 

“Are you alright?” He asks Jaskier, eyeing the still smiling Yennefer warily. 

The blatant concern for his wellbeing warms the bard’s heart, and he pats the man’s arm reassuringly. “Yup, all good. Just catching up with a pest from the past.” 

Kroer’s lips twitch upwards and the man leaves again, tending to his other guests. 

Yennefer does not look impressed, but she also doesn’t transform him into a toad or something equally distasteful. 

“And to think it all started with a little loss of innocence.”

“Little? You know what they did and you call that little?” 

She sighs, clicking her nails against the wooden table. “Compared to what’s in store... yes. Why did you go back?”

“You know.”

Yennefer nods. “Of course I do. Your songs have made it to all corners of the continent by now.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Didn’t know you’re fan, Yen.”

“I’m not. But they have a penchant for getting stuck in your head.”

He grunts. 

“She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss

Her sweet kiss

But the story is this...”

The bard grinds his teeth, wishes not for the first time that the witch actually had perished in the collapsing building. Then feels bad immediately after. 

They’re not friends, exactly. But Jaskier, despite his many reasons for the contrary, actually likes the witch. Most of the time, at least. 

Right now, he kind of hates her. 

“So you actually took the time to remember the lyrics. I’m impressed.”

Yennefer cocks her head, looking very much like a predator about to pounce. “Yes. Impressive. But I’m more interested about the ‘her’ in your little song, bardling.”

“Awe, Yen, I know we’ve shared some special moments and all but, you see, a handsome bard like me-“

“Fine. Let’s not talk about what the entire continent knows already.” 

“Wonderful. Now, if that’s all, I have a horse to pa-“ 

“Jaskier!” She interrupts, and the sincerity with which she says his name has him stop dead, because Yennefer holds her emotions almost as close as Geralt does, locked up tight behind a wall of poisonous thorns. “You can’t just bury your head in the sand and wait for it to happen.”

“It’s not like I want to die!” He says heatedly. “But if Renfri didn’t manage to outrun it, what chance do I have?” 

“You have a Witcher.” 

“So did she.”

“No.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to offer up a retort, but Yennefer is faster. Her hand a blur as it reaches for him, settling warm at his temple. 

There’s a rush in his ears, a steadily growing chime spreading from his head down to his chest to-

Running. 

No, wandering. 

Laughter. 

“The trees.”

A girl, smiling. 

Picking flowers;

Joy. 

“They have teeth.”

Dancing. 

Laughter fading. 

Screams. 

Jaskier blinks, sees Yennifer snap her fingers in front of his face. 

“Wha- what happened?”

“I thought your body might appreciate a little boost.” She says. Not an answer by a long shot, but he does start to notice the sudden absence of pain from his abdomen. 

He tugs his shirt up, peeling the bandages off slowly to reveal a white, messy scar marring the smooth skin. Bloody sorcerers. 

The next thing that registers is the wetness on his cheeks and the salty taste marking them as tears. 

Why is he crying? 

Jaskier feels like waking up from a dream. Like he’d just received someone else’s memories. From within a well. Muffled by countless voices. 

Fuck, he’s high on Yennefer’s magic. 

The sorceress says something he can’t understand, something low and grating, tinged with urgency. 

Then, she throws a few coins on the table, rising from her seat gracefully, turning towards the exit.

The bard’s head clears up a little. 

“Aren’t you gonna stay to cozy up with Geralt a little?” He calls after her, still dazed from whatever had just transpired. 

“Honestly.” Yennefer snorts, throwing him a look that definitely translates to something rude. “I’m afraid the white wolf prefers the company of another nowadays.”

Jaskier blinks. “I think I’d have noticed.”

“Yes, you’d think so. But that’s obviously not the case.” She states dryly. 

And with that Yennifer of Vengerberg exits the inn like a stage, taking with her the oppressive air, heavy with chaos and... let’s just call it magic. 

Jaskier doesn’t know for how long he sits there, but it must be well past midnight when the doors fly open with a bang and Geralt stomps in like a man possessed. 

His amber eyes scan the room and Jaskier his already halfway out of the chair by the time the Witcher’s half crazed gaze meets his. 

“Geralt! What happened!? Are you- Oof”

Now, Jaskier isn’t a short man, but he certainly isn’t as wide or bulky as the Witcher, so it’s only by the strong grip Geralt has on his upper arms that he doesn’t just bowel the bard over when he practically runs into him. 

This is followed by a tense second of being inspected, frantic hands running over him to check for any additional injuries. 

“Geralt! Will you please-“

The Witcher’s hand, ghosting feather light over his stomach, stills when the lack of bandages registers Jaskier will deny it to his dying day that he squeaks when Geralt, without fucking foreplay, just lifts his shirt to inspect the freshly (and magically) healed wound. Prodding it with one finger. 

Kroer, bless his soul, had started ushering the remaining guests outside the moment Geralt had entered like a striga on a mission. 

It doesn’t stop there, though. The hands continue wandering, questions of “what did she do?” keep coming and the sensation of-

“Geralt, STOP!” The bard snaps, more than a little breathless. 

Geralt freezes immediately, pupils dilating and contracting continuously as they search his face. “Did she hurt you?” 

“No.”

“Is Ciri-“

“Fine. Working her royal ass off under Tissaia in Yen’s absence, no doubt. Now what for the love of all things holy is going on!?”

From his peripheral vision the bard sees Kroer lock the front door and leave discreetly, dragging his youngest (very curious) daughter with him. 

Geralt’s relief is palpable as he steps back, tension draining from his body as he runs a hand through messy white hair. 

“I caught her scent in Tragam.” he says. Leaning back against the counter. “I thought she might be angry. Or that something happened to Cirilla.”

He can’t help the groan that escapes his throat. “By the- Geralt, did she come here because of a lover’s quarrel? Because she was quick to assure me that she’s not here because Ciri isn’t safe anymore.” Not a lie, just not the full truth either. “And she also didn’t wanna stay for some lovey-dovey time with you, either. So, quarrel?”

Geralt scowls. “Not quite.”

„Then please do tell why you’re behaving so strangely!“

No answer. Which isn’t as surprising as Geralt almost barreling him over. 

They just stand there, staring at each other. The Witcher breathes deeply, in and out, likely in an attempt to detect any traces of foul play. His eyes are still roving silently over Jaskier, and the bard is eager to return the sentiment, taking notice of the shallow cuts above his right eyebrow and low on his cheek. 

When a few minutes pass in absolute silence, apart from the fire crackling merrily in the fire place, Jaskier resigns himself to the fact that he’ll never receive a reply and lets out a sigh. 

“Those need to be cleaned.” He says, pointing to the scratches. 

Geralt blinks, then ‘Hm’s, turning around to head for the backdoor.

“Wait, where are you going now!?” 

“To return the horse. And check on Roach.”

“Fucking hell, Geralt! You can’t lea- annnnnd he’s gone.”

The Witcher vanishes like a wraith into the darkness outside, the flickering firelight reflecting off the golden brooch attached to the sword on his back. 

Maybe Yennifer was right, he thinks. 

**Author's Note:**

> How many hints did you catch? ;p
> 
> If you haven’t noticed yet: I love Renfri. I’ve loved her since the “Want some breakfast?” Scene and I rarely get so invested in female characters for plenty of reasons. But just... the chemistry with Geralt... I love Yennefer, she’s an absolute queen but Renfri stole my heart and took it to the grave with her. TwT
> 
> I’d love to hear any theories or thoughts you might have about this installment. What do you think is going on with Jaskier? What’s he hiding? 
> 
> Also, feel free to send me asks or the like on tumblr @runninghaunted i love chatting about our favorite dumb idiots!


End file.
